I sit at my desk in a gamer-style chair in front of a large computer, waiting for my next instruction at my job. Impatiently, I start bouncing my leg up and down. Now, I try to be serious and mean business in the workplace, and I try to be this bland woman who fits in and is only known as her work persona, but I do try to customize my stuff. After all, it’s mine, and I still want some of my individuality to show. There’s a plate on my desk with my name on it, Nicolle Lasalle, which has been there ever since I started working there at age fourteen.
Over the years, however, I’ve accumulated more stuff. There is, of course, the computer, complete with the keyboard and mouse as well (as some people had trouble with the touchscreen function) but also various books, a water bottle, my cell phone, a charger, headphones with a microphone, a desk organizer, and a coffee mug.
As tech became more prevalent during what I’d say is the past sixty years, books have become rather outdated. I’ve actually been laughed at by quite a bit of my coworkers (specifically the ones closer to my age) and even earned a nickname as Grandma. I find it rather ironic since I was easily the youngest person to work at Lasalle Tech.
Technically, you can be sixteen if you go through a school program, but you generally have to be eighteen or older. I’m currently the minimum age to work here (without the program), but I may well be the most experienced eighteen-year-old at this specific building due to having four years when other eighteen year olds are first-time Lasalle employees.
I’ve only worked here for so long, though, because my dad allowed me to.
“Better to already have some experience at eighteen. You’d get a higher pay than your other peers, too,” he said.
For that very reason, I’ve been (falsely) considered among the smartest of my age group. My father seems to think so, but he’s my father, so I don’t really count it.
Speaking of which, he approaches me with a new instruction.
“Nicolle, make sure the app and site are working.”
I’m in charge of managing the websites of Lasalle, such as their main page and their social media app, Vibra. Due to the company’s popularity, as it’s basically the powerhouse of our country’s tech, which gained even more popularity with apps like Vibra, there are many weirdos, trolls, and even a rival company, Santos Co., trying to hack into it and take it down in hopes that their company will be more popular and active. After all, if you get rid of your competition, people will have no choice but to go to you. We’re by far the best, but Santos is still the second best.
I type in vibra.sq, Sequoia’s usual domain name, and thousands of posts pop onto the screen. Most of them are news posts or discussion posts, but it’s not the posts that catch my eye. My administrator profile has about 30 new notifications.
A bad feeling starts to form inside me. Most of the users are named after animals in all lowercase with an emoji, such as “bee 🐝” or “elephant 🐘”. When I clicked on Bee’s history, the title of the post read “Admin Application”.
“This looks interesting,” I mutter, barely audible.
“Hello,” it began. “I am a new user of Vibra, but I’ve used this many times as a guest, and have seen many of my friends use this site. One of my favorite things is making connections with others and making communities which are safe and can bring others together. I’d like to be in charge of doing so and getting rid of anyone who threatens that safe place. Is it possible to apply as an admin? Thanks.”
I narrow my eyes. I can hardly tell what’s a troll, what’s a Santos Co. employee, and what’s a regular user anymore.
My cursor hovers on the red “Reply” button, but I don’t click it.
I click off and decide to check the other animal name buttons, most of which have similar stuff. I decide to delete them, since they start to look like spam, and I just keep Bee as a user to check on them.
Other users are genuine, but a few request to date people or post troll-like content. Those accounts I delete.
Bored, I check the time. It’s already 22:00, so Dad should dismiss me any minute. I close out of everything and tilt my head back against the soft padding of the chair, my long black hair spreading against the whole back of it.
“Nicolle!”
I jump. My dad’s voice breaks the silence, and I know that indicates I may leave.
“Well, see you tomorrow.” I hug Dad and drive home.
My house is barely a fifteen-minute drive from the building at which I work, which is a huge plus for me. It’s things like these I think of when I’m having a rough or exhausting time.
To be honest, despite my eagerness to work at such a young age, I now feel so exhausted joining the working world and doing the same, tedious things. Sure, there’s new people and new ways to do things online, with ever-changing technology, but it’s usually so similar. Checking the site for 6 hours a day.
The second I get home, I decide to go to bed as I can barely walk in a straight line and my body slumps like a zombie.
I collapse on my back, still in my sweaty daytime clothes, with one last thing on my mind. If only I could have a break from it all and have someone else do the work for some time.